The two pirates stood by the bar, tapping their feet to the driving beat of a pop song that Woody only vaguely recognised as they sipped orange juice from tall glasses. One of the pirates was middle-aged with a greying beard and a black patch over one eye, the other was younger with curly blond hair and flushed cheeks, but they wore matching outfits, baggy white shirts, red scarves around their necks, tight black breeches, white socks and shiny black shoes with big brassy buckles.

‘Pirates?’ said Maggie as she followed Woody to the bar.

‘Yeah, they’re with the pirate ships,’ said Woody, squeezing in between two stockbroker types and trying to catch the attention of the young barmaid.

‘They would be,’ said Maggie, still mystified.

Woody pointed over her head, towards the large windows at the far end of the bar. ‘Pirate ships,’ he explained. ‘They’re a tourist attraction. A sort of cross between Madame Tussaud’s and the Cutty Sark. Those guys are sort of tour guides, cross their palms with silver and they’ll take you below decks and tell you bloodcurdling tales of life on the salty sea.’ The barmaid finally saw his plaintive look and came over. She gave him a beaming smile which faded a little when she saw that he was with a girl. Woody tended to attract barmaids, but was never sure why. He was still good-looking, he knew that, though he had allowed himself to go a bit recently. It was his eyes, an old girlfriend had told him. ‘Your eyes make me go weak at the knees, they’re hot. Really hot,’ she’d said. Woody reckoned it wasn’t anything to do with his looks, though. He thought it had more to do with the way he made them laugh. Sometimes he laughed them into bed before they realised what was happening. Woody winked at the barmaid, ordered drinks and carried them over to an empty table, close by the window so that Maggie could look at the sailing ships.

‘They’re not real, are they?’ she asked, sitting down.

‘I don’t think so, they were built to pull in the punters to Tobacco Dock.’

He raised his glass to her and she smiled. He was glad he’d taken her to Henry’s Bar in Tobacco Dock because at least they could sit in comfort. Standing at the bar was essential when you were with the lads, but Maggie demanded a higher standard of comfort. No, that wasn’t right, she didn’t demand it. She deserved it.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘Just thinking how pretty you look,’ he said.

‘Why thank you kind sir,’ she laughed. ‘You look exhausted.’

‘Yeah, I’m not sleeping well. It’s the heat.’

She frowned. ‘It’s not that hot at the moment,’ she said.

Woody laughed. ‘No, it’s my place. I’ve a bedsit in a house with about a dozen others, and mine is right next to the only bathroom. The landlord has fitted a hot-water tank as big as a Saturn rocket and my room is always in the high eighties. I have to have the window open even in winter.’